


Maybe She Will

by opti



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Angst, F/F, I have no idea what this is supposed to be, Jealousy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opti/pseuds/opti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost laughable. The one thing she bothers to pay attention to feels like a knife gathering speed before it plunges immeasurable and cold in her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe She Will

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is.
> 
> It's probably something I shouldn't bother writing. Oh well, I make a lot of bad decisions. Let's add this one to the mile long list, shall we?

April doesn't really hate Ann Perkins, the magnificent treefrog or whatever compliment Leslie's showered all over her that day. Not really. It's a feeling that she describes as hate and thinks of as hate  _towards_ Ann but, in the end, that really isn't it.

She doesn't so much hate the way Ann holds herself, and she sure as hell isn't going to say how much she's comparing herself to Ann. Irrationally hating people is fun, but this isn't that. April doesn't really understand why she doesn't like Ann at first. Leslie does smile around her an awful lot, and that always does something akin to strangling April's insides, but it's Ann doing it. 

Usually, on some days where it's so cold that April's fingers feel brittle in the open air, she doesn't mind getting Leslie coffee when she's asked to go out and brave the harsh winds. The red nose, impossible stiff hair at the tips, and her crackling finger bones are all worth it because Leslie's face lights up and she thanks April. It's small, but April lets her guard down for a second to return the smile and say, quietly, "you're welcome."

And Leslie remembers that. April goes out for coffee more often, almost to the point where she's doing it because she wants to. Then there's various sweetened breakfast foods added, and April learns just how much whipped cream this woman can put up with. There are days where April closes the door to her office and scoots Tom out of there like he's doing anything other than staring at his monitor with earbuds in. The first few times she does it, Tom argues with her but April practices her best glower and channels as much pure hate into her looks that Tom just backs off. Pleased, she'd sit down in front of Leslie.

It's just so that she can smile at Leslie again, because Leslie seems to like it when she does that. April greets her the same way. "Good morning," she says genuinely with a smirk and two tall plastic cups in her hands. Sitting down, she hands Leslie one with a popped top and a plastic spoon she remembers to pick up.

"You seem to be in a good mood," Leslie tells her every day. April's never in a  _lively_ mood, but the bright eyes meeting hers when April at least pretends to be only spark and light up further in response. "Is today the day you finally tell me how much of a role model I am to you?"

It's not, but maybe one day it will be. Maybe one day she'll know more than that.

"Ew," April grimaces and Leslie looks down at her coffee and nods. "I mean-"

"Anyways, thanks for the coffee," she holds up her cup and takes a sip before shaking her head and pulling out a can from a drawer. 

"You use way too much of that," April remarks, sipping her own and wishing the fringe of her bangs could hide her from staring at Leslie. "It's gross."

"Just because I don't eat  _salads_ and drink  _low fat_ like you," she retorts but Leslie says with a flair that just makes April laugh the tiniest bit. Only the tiniest bit, of course. "Hah! I made you laugh."

"Shut up," April blurts out too defensively. 

Leslie stops smiling, looking down at her coffee. Wanting to take the words back, or explain it was a joke, April instead takes the route of standing up and awkwardly excusing herself.

Then, almost seamlessly, those days start to fade away. That's what April hates about Ann - not the crummy boyfriend, or the small house, or her dull job and disinterest in local politics. April hates that Leslie starts looking at her that way, and with that smile, and her eyes no longer light up the same way around April.

It's not her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With hands tingling, blood pulsing in her fingertips, April walks down the hall towards the Parks department. The cup carrier feels heavier in her hand, but she hasn't talked to Leslie in a few days and words feel pointless towards anyone else. 

Opening the double doors, through the doorway April sees Leslie laugh. It makes her chest burn that little fire just a bit brighter, but then it's someone else in front of her. Tom's gone again, but it's not April in there. There's coffee on her desk but it's not the same tall cups. It's not April in there, and that hurts. Leslie's smiling, and laughing, but not because of something snide that April said. She isn't smiling because she wants to pull one out of April; and it's Ann talking to Leslie in her office. The previous heat in City Hall seems to die out as if the doors all burst open at once and let in a shudder of wind and snow. Putting the coffee down on the central table, April sits at her desk and keeps her gloves on just so her hands don't freeze anymore. 

Maybe Ann will leave soon. Maybe she will go, so Leslie can ask April if she wants to go on some dumb canvassing nightmare afternoon again. She doesn't, though. Like an unsure child, April almost stands up to get the coffee then sits back down. Thinking on it, again, she does take hers and stares at it almost longingly.

"Ann, I'm so glad you're here," April overhears, stirring her coffee aggressively and staring into the swirl of brown liquid and the wooden stirrer in the eye. "You are the single most amazing person I have ever met."

"Aw, Leslie that's-" but after that it's just the wail of a banshee and April tunes it all out.

She can scarcely believe what she's heard. It's almost laughable. The one thing she bothers to pay attention to feels like a knife gathering speed before it plunges immeasurable and cold in her back. Somewhere in the darker corners of her mind, a place April doesn't ever want to go back to, she pictures the red of her blood running hot against snow from that knife and Leslie's standing over her.

Standing over her, that smile April wishes she could roll over to see, and she's hand-in-hand with Ann. Not her. Not April. 

Red courses over the snowflakes, and April can almost see it - the red; and that pain is real, and visible. April can feel it. She can feel the knife, and the way things have subtly changed. April can see it, feel it, and she loses herself in her own mind trying to figure out if maybe Leslie will stop staring through her at Ann for one second.

Maybe she will, but April doubts it.


End file.
